Hold Me Up
by apathyburger
Summary: Rogue just wants someone to hold her but how can John hold someone you can't touch?(Ryro undertones)(and a NY DOLLS! ref!!! dude)


Disclaimer: I own nothing that Stan Lee has had his hand too. A/N: I'm looking for a beta to look over several different pieces I've written, not all for X Men, if anyone is interested. Also, if you're interested in reading other pieces I have written please head over to fictionpress.net and look under apathyburger. Thanks ever so much. ************  
  
John knocked on Marie's door. "You ready?" He thought he heard her mumble something so he opened the door. Perhaps she was asleep- training sessions have been growing longer, harder, pushing everyone to their limits. Or the limits they thought they had. He stuck his head around the heavy door, the wood smooth underneath his palms. He looked for a moment at the wall across from the door; the NY Dolls Poster he had given her- the black and white lips smeared with red lipstick, her mirror turned to face the white plaster wall. Marie sat in the corner formed by the wall and her bed, hugging her knees.  
  
John tripped inside the room, catching himself before hitting the ground, hitting the door closed with one foot and fell on his knees in front of Marie. "Are you ok?" he asked, reaching out to touch her shoulder, fixing the tightly woven lace where it had started to slip, exposing skin.  
  
"I just, wanted to be held," she said softly, her eyes trained firmly on the ground, shoulders quaking a little like one ready to cry, like one who had recently sobbed.  
  
"Oh." For a moment John was reminded of one of those starving, AIDS stricken children in Africa, who, when given food, you could see the bulge in their skin. He shook his head absently, shook the hair out of his eyes and ran his fingers over the lump in his pocket where his lighter was. Marie wasn't starving. He moved again, to sit next to her, wrapped his arm around hr shoulders. Slowly she let herself lean into the touch, his fingertips gently wrapped around her arm, touching only the thin black lace. Her shoulder nestled in his armpit but still she shook slightly.  
  
He shifted his seat again, facing her side cross-legged; he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into, onto himself. She leaned into his lap, shifting until her rear sat in the small space, the small hole of carpet between the crotch of his jeans and where his ankles linked together, her knees rising so she could rest her face upon them, her back curving into John. He rubbed his hands on her arms until she leaned into his chest, hands folded atop her knee caps, her head resting just beneath his chin, her loose hair tickling his chin, wrapping around his throat, some trickling down the collar of his shirt to rest on his chest. He reached his head down and kissed her hair. It tasted like lemongrass.  
  
She sighed. He touched the bottom of her chin for a moment and then gently pulled his fingers away. It had been a small touch- skating along her skin yet he felt a small part of himself leave. Touching her- it was like quicksand. Like fly paper. Yet one did so very much want to hold her- not only because she was forbidden. She had the eyes of a small child who was afraid of the dark but hid her fear by delighting in small things- fresh snow, ice sculptures, warm fires.  
  
He knew this because he read her diary once- specifically a sheet of paper that fell from it to land on the floor in his room- she must have been in there talking with Bobby, maybe holding gloved hand with All American hand while leaning against his bed. She was afraid of the darkness in her that swallowed people, was afraid it would swallow her too. John, in turn, hid his desire to hold her face close to his own and press his nose and forehead against hers, their eyes staring into one another's for a solitude second but John knew to do so was death, was hospital wing, was coma.  
  
He didn't have a diary or else he'd write that. He'd write out the lyrics to "Wild World" because Marie had sung it once softly. He'd paste in a map of Australia, and highlight all the places he wanted to show, to see. Tape in the postcards he had written to his family but never mailed. Marie had caught him burning one once and had asked what it was. After he had told her she disappeared, went back to her room, leaving him to sit alone again under the maple tree with only his lighter, the small piles of ash and the burned leaves scattered around him for company. A tap on his shoulder- he had turned and she held out a stack of her own, each complete with postage. As he lit them she leaned in close to the flame, watching the milky white letters go up in smoke, her face turning slightly gray and smile growing larger.  
  
Someone knocked on her door, told her to hurry up- she'd be late and she sees John tell him to get a move on too. Scott. Marie looked at John and said softly, "Get a move on". Smiled and said she never did understand that phrase. She stood and he grabbed her hands, letting her pull him up. He kissed the place where she tucked her hair behind her ear and walked to the door, holding it open for her. She walked out first into the hallway and he followed. 


End file.
